April 12, 2009 - Easter Day, Year B (RCL)
The death had happened at the worst time.
Late afternoon
just before the Sabbath began,
and once the Sabbath began
nothing interfered
with the strict observance
of a day of rest.
If it had been up to the Romans, or even the Jewish leaders
they would have left the body hanging there under the sign, “The King of the Jews,”
a rotting reminder to anyone tempted
to question
their authority.
But he died in time, three o’clock,
and though it had been unusually dark
those last three hours,
sunset had not yet come,
and with it the Sabbath
and so Joseph of Arimathea,
a well respected religious figure, and apparently also a secret believer,
went to the governor
and asked for the body.
And perhaps ready to be done with it all - after all, he hadn’t wanted to execute him in the first place, but the people were threatening to riot -
ready to be done with it all,
Pilate said to Joseph,
“Do whatever you want.”
And Joseph
in those last few minutes of daylight
rushed to the market and bought a piece of linen
and then took Jesus’ body
wrapped it in the cloth
and laid it in a tomb,
sealing the entrance
with a large
boulder.
The women hadn’t been able to do their work,
washing the body tenderly,
wrapping it in linen,
with spices tucked
between the layer.
There was no time,
no time for any
of the usual funeral rituals,
just a hurried burial
before the sun set.
And then it was the sabbath.
A time for rest.
A time for quiet.
A time for the numbness
that goes along with any death.
But then the sabbath was over,
and with it the enforced silence.
And they were free again to do
whatever needed
to be done.
And the helplessness of grief
was overpowered to do something, anything,
to make life real again.
And so they turned to the rituals, the rituals of death
that there had been no time
to do.
And before the sun rose,
they gathered together the spices,
myrrh, like the myrrh
that the kings had brought at his birth,
and aloes, a fragrant wood,
and they went to the tomb.
Knowing, of course, that it was hopeless.
The body had been in there
the best part of two days;
no amount of spices
would be able to mask
the decomposition already begun.
And in any case,
they likely wouldn't be able
to get into the tomb.
They’d watched the boulder
rolled in front of it;
even at the best of times
they weren’t strong enough to move it,
and this was not
the best of times,
thirty six hours spent weeping and sleepless.
But they had to do something, awake as they were before dawn, with no hope of falling asleep again,
and this was all
they could think of
to do.
And maybe, just maybe
other people would be there,
ready to tend their own family plots,
or perhaps a gardener,
and they could help
to move the stone.
At the very least
they could wait there, stand vigil
beside his grave.
***
This week
I read an article*
by a woman whose teenage sister
died just before Easter last year.
Rachel had been fine. She was away at college,
and had a bad cold, which turned to pneumonia,
and she died before anyone could come to her help.
The writer, Alana, tells us the sort of person her sister was,
grace-filled and level-headed, a straight-A student and loved by the kids she baby sat. And ordinary, healthy teenager.
And then Alana got the email, terrible, heart-stopping news. She remembers shopping for a new white hoodie
for Rachel to wear in her casket.
Waiting for her body to arrive.
Realizing that this body
was a stranger,
a corpse.
****
Just like the women, coming to the tomb
that first Easter morning,
expecting to find a corpse,
loosely wrapped
in white linen.
They’d set off early,
heads down,
cloaks wrapped around them against the cold, shoulders aching
with the weight of the spices.
It was dark at first,
only the shadows to keep them company,
and then slowly the pale gray light of dawn,
and by the time they got to the graveyard
the hazy glow of early morning sun
was touching the grass
and putting halos
around trees.
So that when they saw it
they weren’t quite sure
if it was just a trick of the light.
A gaping hole
and the boulder pushed
to the side,
and still wondering they were seeing things
they bent over
and looked in
and there they saw a young man,
dressed in white,
like the white of the linen shroud
Jesus had been wrapped in so hurriedly
just two days before.
And no body.
*****
Alana pauses
in the story
of her sister’s death, and turns to the faith she was raised in.
She writes,
“My mother, a devout Catholic, has arguments about Christianity with her children all the time. We usually tell her we believe in Christian values, but that's it. We believe in the golden rule: Love others as you love yourself. We'll even concede that Jesus can be seen in the face of a stranger. A junkie sleeping on a grate on the sidewalk, Pope John Paul II: Their souls have the same value in the eyes of God. You have been made in God's image. Your soul is worth more than all the dollars in the world.
But my mom always tells us that Christianity is more than that. Atheists believe in the golden rule too. What you need is a personal relationship with Christ.”
*****
A personal relationship with Christ. That’s what Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of Joses, and Salome had
until that fateful Friday
that we call good.
He was their friend, their Lord,
and they had hoped
they would have many years of friendship ahead of them.
His death
was the end of that, of their hopes,
and of their dreams.
And then they looked into the tomb, and there was no body.
Just a young man sitting, dressed in white,
saying, “Don’t be afraid!”
But of course they were terrified
and ran from the tomb.
They didn’t get to see Jesus.
They didn’t go tell the disciples.
They didn’t tell anyone.
They just went home
terrified.
It wasn’t until they stopped
that they remembered the words
that he threw after them.
“It’s okay, Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified, who you’re looking for, he’s been raised; he’s not here. Go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; you’ll see him there, just like he said.”
*****
Last Easter, Alana went to church alone.
Her family were on the other side of the country.
Buried in grief, her childhood faith
pulled her back.
She knew what to expect. Hope. Heaven. Myth, miracle, whatever, the idea that that God would suffer a mortal death and, in so doing, open up the doors to life after death for us.
It had never made any sense to her. What was the point
of Jesus waiting
in heaven.
But that Easter, tired and grieving,
something changed.
Heaven got a face.
For her, it was Rachel's face,
but as she writes, you can see that it’s not just Rachel’s face,
it’s Jesus’ face.
Suddenly
she recognizes Jesus,
waiting, with life.
And she says,
“Easter celebrates that what's finite and what's infinite intersect, that there's life on Earth and there's life outside of it. Easter is an annual celebration for a reason: so that we're constantly aware that our earthly existence is insignificant compared to what awaits us.”
And she goes on, “That sliver of hope for heaven that I felt at the Easter service has often evaded me, but I'll tell you something: It has meant more to me than hugs, cards, flowers, human kindness, the compassion of employers and certainly the notion that Rachel will "live on in memories."”
Because the true consolation of Easter, the miraculous promise, the hope,
is one of life,
life and love
that goes beyond this life
into all eternity.
For Rachel, for Alana, for Mary and Mary and Salome,
and for us too.
Because Jesus has led the way,
and waits for us,
welcoming us
into life here and now
and life eternal.
Christ is risen. Allelluia!
* Alana Trumpy, Globe and Mail, April 10, 2009, http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/story/RTGAM.20090410.wfacts10/BNStory/lifeMain/home
© Raewynne J. Whiteley 2009